Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

We drove west | first past the woods, then past the farms | then past the churches | then the malls | then we came to the shipyards | last of all | but there were no ships | Your bare shoulders | smelled of lime and vanilla | we thought we were free | or at least | that’s what they’d told us | We scrubbed ourselves clean | and threw away the guns | Soon, we wouldn’t matter | Then there were ships, and we were happy

Frank asked What’s your poison? | He thought he was in a film | he wasn’t | alone | This was why they had built the roads | and come to a new arrangement | with horizons | Too tired, perhaps too wise | to make a sacrifice | of either or both of us | you slipped into the shower | Those lonely farms, lit in the dark distance | the calm green cyphers of the fields | of the Midwest or East Anglia | stretching for miles across the plains | no one ever came back | but every one of them | thought they’d return | it is | an error we are all | destined to make | is it even | an error? | Once it was done, we chose exile | we weren’t philosophers | we didn’t | linger on such things | What was the point? | Then he really was | in a film | Then he really was | alone

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2016)

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Shot through | Species with delicate wings | Forced by blizzard | to take a late flight | I met you

Quick to anger | easy to war | Uneasy days | in the glass showrooms | of TVs and phones | Small doses | of antidote kisses | shall we | kid ourselves | we escape | the malaise? | Taking a kinder path | while we still can | Soldiers | watch over us | In the shop, choosing fridges | Shells on the beach | You don’t mind I’m | washed up | What is coming? | Is it enough? | All? | Just | holding back?…

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2014)

Chipping away at Pan | This leaf and that leaf | A screen of trees | gives rise to a blue | gnaw and haze of horizon, the inexhaustible | green expires into pixels and | tinting psychology || Mood? | Washed out | melancholy || At last the starlight silence starts | to fill the cracks | the walls | agonise with rumours of goat-bells and nomads | Whole limbs roughed out, digits | scented with zest, moisture, juice | of sweet and bitter fruits | languor of a love unconsummated, a love | unfelt | unwanted… || Such a fuss to | infatuate the heavens | effort to | lime angels | the lies and half-lies | and half-truths | to calm the tears of | discarded models | so much | falseness | misguidance | fluff and | bubble and | bother | until, suddenly, unflagged, a moment comes precisely | sufficient to us | apt, graceful, fitting, and all the writers | put down their pens | the subjects | their rulers | the lakes | their waters | and I am finished | with the stillness of horses

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2013)

Placing a stone | on a breeze || Holding down an edge | with ink, with | hope || Very quickly, you come to the valley of | generalisation | why do you | rush there so soon, can’t you let | life be, the ladybird’s | gambler’s trickle, the | line of freckles | recalling Orion? || Propping up a corrupt regime | sunrise or a lazy love | wanting to get off the train | before your stop | and your headache | a chasm into which | your own bones are falling, and the gong | booms a golden trash over and over, Who doesn’t want MORE money?… || Such a grand work, Death, intruding | into the piano’s subtle / birdsong music, the rain’s erratic history, the eternal battle between cats | and dogs… || Over there, the great forest waits | accumulated from birch and pine, the paths of all the myths | go here, whoever follows them | may not return, such is | desire || We will not | wrangle this thing into sense, not now, not ever | It is not made for the motionless | as sleep | is not made for the waking || No, we must make do | again | with everything | the fresh start | our character, for whom | surprise permits us | the limit of insight, for whom | the very nature of a word is otherwise

Wild love in a tame love game | It sometimes happens | Her slender feet in golden slippers | remind me of a beauty | oddly classic | a moment should be marked | by MGM or Universal | In such a way | I am sent down | to the humble things | the world of details – threads | creases | pins | not lit by a path of | principle or braced | by the scaffold of conclusions or ideas, but | broken away | into themselves, or at least, into what | is left of them | when the words have finished, and the final | dream of trees | begins

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem June 2013)

Moving things around with your wishes | Tending the faces, the memories | of faces | the shadows of faces | When your wishes are over | real people return | square arms | round heads | leaving their teeth | at the bottom of the sea, as | would anyone | Those fish, scavengers, are the “cleaners of the ocean” | that dish | is “melt-in-your-mouth” | We have the facilities | We have the arrangements | There are the courts | Disinfectants | The breezes of other | people’s conversations | the swirling leaves in them | and different species of trees, perhaps you could | name one? | But they have no need of trees | Setting the bones of the next | night down by the rest | it’s quite a collection | A reaped crop | including the farmers | all gone to that | dark market | a hit | a haul and | a score | with no one | to mark it | Slow | fate | falls | slow | the | drop | Thighs, and scapulas | wrists | jaws | and at the far, far | end of a | thought | the old mammoth’s | tusks | showing | how you loved her | still covered by the snow | you once wished | might stop

When a new voice comes | like a fresh breeze | who will care for the one | raindrop among all | the raindrops of the storm? | With its | faint taste of | kelp | salt | rust: | Atlantic? | Do you want | your bitterness to grow | so clear | it will be like | nothing? | How long will you wait | while the castle | crumbles around you, the demerara | freckles drift | down her arms and deepen, the weather’s | years awry? | The soft | blizzard of orgasm | blows | out of you | Now you’ve won | what will you do? | Why do you hate it so | when all your wishes | come true?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem June 2013)

It was as if the tree couldn’t bear its own blossoms | Giving and giving, never taking | like falling | Someone else is here with us today | the next one | And others, so tangential | they have our vanishing in mind | Such a powerful spell, can the magic | of the vantage | be escaped, or | overwhelmed? | The mirrors | must do without us | when we’re not in the room | can they cope? | Down from the cherry tree | dropped the blossoms

Barbecue smoke | wafts over suburbia | we are having | a party! | Summer’s trick is ours to play | Such odd | angles to the strangers’ wars, the moral | so hard to place | at the end of our story | At night | two sorcerers lie down like blossom | and make love as if | the spring belongs to them | equally as to | the lost, the weak and the poor | When this | visceral illusion | has passed | we push the boat out | into sleep | In the bathroom, the bedroom, the front room | the hall | mirrors | attend the darkness | perfect with not knowing and the quiet

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem June 2013)

Things that break in your hands | Silences you break with a word | Thistledowns lost on the wind | All the things and the one | silence

The trees, turned to powder by our | kiss | The sky shattered to blue dust, we must lie down || Even our silence trembles with opening flowers, and the rain we are breaking with a | sliding palm | far off, in us, falls | into an unwanted darkness where | vigorous weeds take root and begin their | climb to light

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

I am coughing, and the cough | follows me like a pet | Each evening I drink | a concoction of dust | in plain water | this will cure me | I’m sure | My sons work | in the aerospace industry | I | stay close to my church | my arteries | branch and branch… | Out of my guts | once they are sifted | they may drag | the pebbles, the sharp | fragments of quartz | little mounds of powdered calcium | the bones | among the ashes | they will give forth | pansies and worts | mosses, the fan | shaped lichens on gravestones | Reduce me | I beg of them | pull down my spine | into the horns of gazelles | the liquorice | trundle of snails | and that | option on the sky | fill it with the simmer | of petrol blue swallows | their racing | visitation | At the top | far higher | than the fairy mines | of viruses | there are equations | sermons | parsings | of clauses and times | a spindly fuss | with measures like microns and zettaFLOPS | My sons | make good incomes | my sons | visit rarely | they are good people | I think | they lead good lives | I imagine | far off | in the valley | Up here | in the mountains | I cough | and cough | the air is clear | the water is pure | the marble | will stand | and my cough | follows me | and I | seeking the cure | drink down my dust

There was amazing progress from the team | goals achieved and fresh targets set | we were achieving achieving achieving | in the labs | polycarbonate | lift and drag | unique | identifiers | Other, 7 | Our professor | droned through the lecture | a thing | is the meaning of a thing | The point of the mountain | is in climbing the mountain | Ralph decided | he didn’t hear | what the avalanche said | Increasing production | reducing staff | more from less | we were kept busy | in our free time | there was the yacht and the cinema | At night | as if from a mine shaft | rising up | from the void | where “it all started” | sometimes at least | we couldn’t sleep | haunted | by the arid echoes | of a cough, cough, cough…

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Shovelling flowers into a grave, the summer garbage | swelled by strikes, my fingertips | upon your ankles | What was it about the hardness of the bone | I couldn’t believe? | Shipping the oars | the water, sumptuously plain, and flat, and smooth, from deep in the forest | a woodpecker’s brief | hollow hammer, then the day | very still again, as if | the air was entirely full | Another week without emergencies, airport firecrews | spent their time in checks and drills, you were quiet | I felt a little lost, you gazed at me | so solemnly, as if | the game was up, somehow | and the government | put troops out on the streets | to bolster an order we largely | detested | We are all police now | you said, I wasn’t sure | what you meant | but I nodded | Tidying our ideas | into a locker | our love had become like one of those | derelict buildings | engulfed by graffiti | frequented by foxes | Finding your body, lapped by darkness | stale | images of tongues | the stout | bud of the penis | programmed to advance | our place in nature, until | at last, all the children are born | all the family trees | unfolded to their full extent | and the sterility of completed things | sends us back, haunting the vast | playgrounds of our memories | chalked | squares on the tarmac like an alien sign | When language came, it came all at once | and the apes began | to be puzzled by their own | singing | What was it, hiding | inside, or outside, or | beyond the music – so | fraught with time and alternatives? | I carry the scrap of my own | spirit around in me | a sound of particles of debris | soughing and scraping | sometimes I spread articles out and | sift through them | giving the teaspoon a drawer, the sultana an epoch | When the situation | worsened, justice gave way | to force | even battle became | a kind of opium | the futility deepened like drifts | in a blizzard | armies | went into it | and never | returned | I left you, bare and | desolate | today | you claim the state | of victim | so, I guess, I must be | the criminal? | I am Richard III | once more | enlightened to the grace of horses | We are | each thing’s conclusion in our jump and sway — both true and | absurd | Look, how you treat these words

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Picking up again from where you left off | The golden drudgery of meaning | and you an alchemical clerk | minding the store | lead left in the jar | labelled, literally, ‘Pb’ | when the day is over | Wear an apron of cinnamon | an apron of mauve | They are talking about peak oil | the latest show on HBO | about asset management | the grey era | of dementia and care homes | there are clouds | They have different values to you | some of them are on lists | no: correction | all of them are on lists | of one sort or another, and subtly, and disappointingly | the lists strip them of numen | despiritualise them | they probably don’t realise | and the lead is there | again in the morning | the counters are stacked | with items to sell, or, if they fail to sell, eventually | return to the wholesaler or | simply throw away | The lists are changing | people are being filtered and sieved | added and erased | perhaps, after all, it is not so disappointing | to belong to the lists — some of them, anyway | the alternative is deletion | the effective assignment to some null census of oblivion | you happen to wear | an apple-green apron today | Several of the customers | are Dutch | their language sounds odd to you | full of clues and sludge and mussel shells | very attractive in a way | plenty to be turned to gold | in their portions of lead | Time, it must be said, weighs heavily upon you | throughout the quiet, resinous vacancy | of the summer afternoon | the store light but frequently deserted | there is a lining | of smooth, black incoherence | behind the surface of each bespoke moment’s mirror | and listlessly you recall | one term for oil is “black gold” | in any case | the hours pass without adherence | to anything | but people will make it up, anyway | that’s what we call | civilisation | sometimes | At night, you leave the store | lock up | the moon performs its duty as a human tool | for the use of alchemical clerks | the loneliness, the stars, ditto | Tomorrow, perhaps, the apron of indigo blue | the weighing of the grapes, the flour, the carrots | the sorting of the plugs, the tacks, the figures | the numbers | the words | Sedated on objects, people will come | to browse through the store | the different departments | lift and study the items | for sale | including the volumes | of poetry and the pictures | of saints and philosophers | and people | will stroke the sides of the objects, rotate them, inspect them from different angles | and perhaps purchase some — some, but not all | though, secretly, they may want to | But the lists will not let them | And that, you imagine, is a good thing | In the end, you need the money, and so each morning | twist the gold back to lead | and wonder | as you turn the sign | from CLOSED to OPEN | what colour apron will the new clerk | wear today?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)